


a line out to sea (to see if i can catch a dream)

by makapedia



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Absent mother, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Beach, Asexuality Spectrum, Demisexuality, F/M, Nudity, Slow Burn, Wanderlust, Witchcraft, mermaid au, nsfw to come probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-09-27 22:12:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10053695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makapedia/pseuds/makapedia
Summary: Put one foot in front of the other and soon you'll be dancing out the door.





	1. the sun was always in her eyes

_to see if i can catch a dream_

_._

It's not the first time he's stumbled upon a naked girl on the beach, unfortunately.

Because - _Wes_ , and his parties, and the alcohol and dares and hormones and whatever else it is that inspires girls to take off their clothes and romp around in the sand with the oldest Evans boy. And, well, because _he_ is Soul, younger, less attractive and attract _ed_ brother, it is not the first time he's found himself helping a naked girl on the beach, either. Call it good will, or paying it forward, or _whatever;_ there is something inherently vulnerable about loneliness, and while he is accustomed to solitude, he sort of figures not everyone feels the same.

And without clothes, no less. Soul has a strict no public nudity policy, himself. Not that anyone would want to see his gangly body anyway, but _still._

He finds her long after their _guests_ have headed back into the beach house. They're noisy, and Soul's headphones blew a week ago, and he'd been silently lamenting his own laziness for damning him to a late night on the coast when he'd spotted her, a tiny, waifish dirty-blonde thing, sand caked to one cheek.

"Here," he finds himself saying, digging a towel out of his backpack, all the while averting his eyes from her pale, moonlit skin. "Cover yourself up."

Girl number who-knows-what blinks owlishly at him. Her face is awfully soft, for Wes's taste; she's almost doe-eyed, lashes blonde and light, freckled from cheek to cheek. Really cute, he thinks, objectively speaking; almost dangerously young-looking, with a little button nose, slim build-

Soul decides it is best not to overthink his brother's one-night-stands and shakes the towel this naked girl _still_ hasn't accepted. In fact, she does seem perturbed, but not due to her state of undress; she's blinking again, staring at him, the moon, the dim, star-speckled horizon behind him. The damp sand shifts beneath her knees as she moves, leaving round, perfect craters in her wake, and- Soul stops staring, coughing.

Then she tries crawling to her feet, goes jelly-boned like a toddler and crumbles like a sandcastle.

 _Drunk_ , he thinks decisively. Drunk and completely at peace with her new status as streaker, coupled with no earthly business being this alone near a frigid tide.

"Christ, _okay_ , wait. Can you, uh-" he is not a parent, has never had to teach someone how to walk, and _wow_ , her eyes are green, huh. _Focus._ "Stand, maybe? Or, uh, shit-"

She says nothing, only squirms, writhes on the beach like a newborn seal. She sprawls, then, arms outstretched, grainy fingers brushing his ankles, and Soul jumps a mile, gasping. Ticklish, he thinks, flailing, stumbling back, before landing with his ass in the sand, too, with an astonishingly undignified shriek. And finally, it seems that is what gets her to startle, and there's a wrinkle between her brow, confused, as she paws her way toward him with impressive strength, dragging herself across the distance between them.

He knows drunk legs are kind of dumb and useless, but damn. She could at least wiggle a little, maybe use her knees to inch her way forward, like some sort of strange, bipedal _worm,_ but no. _No,_ she seems intent on just dragging herself using only upper body strength. And it's _working._

Drunk chicks, man. Fucking Wes, fucking and chucking 'em. How's she ever supposed to get home, if she can't seem to remember that she is not a zombie and she has feet to carry herself around on? Bare feet. Where the hell are her shoes? And the rest of her clothes?

Soul grunts, cracking his neck. Kind of feels like rubbing his sore, boney ass, too, but is quickly distracted by Wes's little plaything _power-crawling_ toward him. She gets as far as wrapping a damp hand around his wrist before he realizes the gravity of the situation and begins attempting to wiggle out of her grasp - which, he quickly discovers, is deceptively ironclad. Her skin's almost clammy on his, wrinkly little fingers, and he's caught up in wondering just how long she's been out here, playing in the tide before she begins quite literally using him as a human ladder.

"WHOA, wait-" Okay, that is a hand on his ass, _Christ_. Being touched is right up there with no nudity on Soul's list of no-nos, but it's sort of hard to shove her off after watching her take a nose dive only minutes prior. "I see why Wes liked you now," he says, while hooking his hands beneath her armpits and helping lift her to her feet.

She purses her lips and stares at him in that uncanny, unblinking way. Such unwavering attention, without even a hint of discomfort or shyness, despite - she is still naked, good lord, he had not intended to get an eyeful tonight, and sort of feels like a skeezeball for glancing down, despite knowing she's not wearing a thing.

Not… that it even awakens anything in him. Tits are little blobs of fat, with a nipple presented like a cherry on top. Probably have the same appeal as a sundae for dudes who give a shit about that sort of thing, but presently Soul doesn't give a shit about her tiny tits or slight waist or long, _long_ legs. Nah, he's more concerned about the _why,_ about the way she's looking at him, fragrant and reeking of sea salt, and the grains of sand, speckling her like freckles.

Mystery girl wobbles, then, grasping for his shoulders. One hand cups his neck and he swallows nervously. "Okay?"

Pretty pink lips open, but no sound comes out. Not even a squeak. There's a faint gasp, intake of breath, and then she sort of _wilts_ , those doe-eyes clouding over, discouraged.

"... _Okay?_ "

He takes a step back. It is a grave mistake. Lady of the beach does not seem to understand the complexities of legs yet, and the moment his body begins to retract from her direct line of contact, she timbers. Arms link around the back of his neck, and he has about half a second to yelp before she is hugging herself to his chest and, _okay,_ boobs. Hello.

Default to blaming Wes. Do not think about how awkward this is. Do not think about how fucking dead he is when this girl comes to in the morning.

Soul does not think about it and steadies her hips with his hands. Her skin is cold. And sandy. Eurgh, it's a strange texture. Feels a little like the one time Wes had conned him into thinking a brotherly fishing trip would be _fun_ and not a slimey, grainy Experience. The texture rubs him the wrong way, and sends a sort of shiver up his spine, but he cannot release this fish-out-of-water without fearing she might take another drunken spill into the sand, so he perseveres. Very bravely.

Even if his delicate sensibilities are crying.

(It's weirder for her, it's gotta be weirder or her, _grow a pair, Soul._ Why can't you be tougher, anyway?)

"Okay," he says, for what must be the fifth time tonight, gritting his teeth, "never mind that, then- can you just, towel, maybe? Yeah?"

Unnerving silence. Maybe not, then. His Batman towel sits in a heap at their feet, crumpled and sad. Clearly she has no taste. What a badass towel he'd offered her. Only the best for ladies like herself; such a gentleman he is, huh, having a one-way conversation with a girl who doesn't even smell like alcohol.

Eh. He knows the trick. Get stupid wasted, spend time out on the coast, rolling around in the sand, come back smelling like a seafood restaurant, profit. Avoid conflict. Never make eye contact with dad. No one will suspect a thing from the first born. There's distance in her eyes, a longing, lost sort of ache, and despite the strength in the set of her brows, he can read the worry between the lines with practiced ease. Like sight reading. Muscle memory.

She wiggles one hand away from crushing the back of his neck to trace the shape of lips, and her fingertips taste like the ocean. Hrgh. Who knows where else these hands have been, grossnasty, urgh. He shudders again, sends a silent prayer to whatever cruel deity is up there torturing him, and heaves her and her noodle legs into his arms.

"Sorry," he mutters, grunting, as he hefts her into a more comfortable position. Either she's heavier than anticipated (unlikely, she is twiggy) or he is weaker than originally thought (likely), because he strains, for a moment, staring down at his towel, wondering how in hell he's supposed to dress her in it without dropping her in the process.

The world is cruel and unusual. So much for proving he doesn't give a shit about dating. He's gonna stroll right in with a naked girl in his arms.

Her arms find their way around his neck. She shivers, and he grunts, legs shuddering as he lowers himself into a squat. Regrets skipping leg day. Regrets skipping every day at the gym, really, and grits out, " _Towel,"_ in a desperate hope that she will understand at least this. Nudges toward it with his chin and everything, as if his body has not begun trembling beneath the effort of any little bit of manual labor.

_(Weakling, weakling, such a pathetic weakling-)_

Utilizing her legs may be too much to ask for, but she hugs the sandy towel to her chest, blinking curiously at him, and Soul seizes momentum and launches himself into a jog. The tide crashes behind them and she shivers, face smushed up into his shirt, and up close, he can tell her hair's actually more gold than burnt blonde. She shivers in his arms, this curious, trembling little thing, and something buried deep and raw in him unravels.

It'll be the first time he's brought a girl home. Naked. From Wes's beach.

First times for everything, he supposes.


	2. she didn't even see me

There has never been a naked girl in his bed before, either.

Soul flicks the lock shut on his door and pauses. Wonders, for a moment, if he should take some time to really mull this over, all things considered - he's practically a professional at staying on the down-low and hiding things from his parents, but there's no godly way he'll be able to keep an entire human secret, not while Wes breathes the same air. Not while this entire human has probably (definitely) romped with Wes, fat chance.

It's… odd, he thinks, watching her flounder about in his sheets. Odd, because he's only entertained thoughts of naked women in his bed as a young teen - and even then, it was because it was what was expected of him, as a fourteen year old boy, on the cusp of puberty and hormones, never because he'd found actual enjoyment in it. Wondered, often, if this was what he was meant to strive after, what he was meant to daydream about. _Odd,_ because he feels no differently now, at eighteen, than he had at fourteen; she is here, he supposes. Probably cold. Will probably have a killer hangover, later.

"Here," he says, tossing an old shirt at her, which tents over her face. "Put it on. I'll take the floor."

She grasps the fabric and pulls it down to her lap. Blinks at him. Purses her lips and squints, too.

Christ. "You… know how to dress yourself, don't you?" Please, do not make him dress her. He would like to maintain a polite two feet of distance, would very much like to not accidentally cop a feel. _Please._

Girl tilts her head. Blinks imploringly at him.

_Hell._

Of course. This is how his life works. Gritting his teeth, he snatches the shirt back out of her grasp, wrestles her hands into the air as gently as he can, tugs the cotton down her torso, blankets the hem onto her lap. Tries so very hard not to focus on the soft skin he'd accidentally brushed his fingers against, grunting.

And she's close, now. Close, with the biggest, greenest eyes he's ever seen, lashes fluttering, and she licks her lips. Her hair is a tangled, golden mess, piled over her pale shoulders, freckled as far as the eye can see, and it's when he's caught up gawking at her surreal, confusing beauty that she kisses him.

Her lips are numbing. A confused, strangled noise rumbles in the back of his throat, and her tongue (!) slides against him and turns his brain to putty. It's- it's _stupid,_ the way this simple kiss makes him feel - an unsolicited kiss, at that. From a _stranger,_ someone he's certainly not attracted to, and it just goes so against the grain of his very being and doesn't make sense that he squawks.

And then sparks.

But not, like, flowery, hypothetical sparks. _Real_ sparks. Like his lips are tingling and his fingers are full of static and his entire being has become electrically charged and _holy shit is he dying?_ He is wired tight, ready to blow, and then the tingling sort of just… fizzles, and his hands are his own again and he pushes off of her, panting, soul clicking back into place.

A kiss should not be an out of body experience. He cannot get drunk off of the assumed alcohol on her lips. Hell, she doesn't even taste of tequila or rum, just - just salt, he thinks, trembling, gawking. Salt and the wind and waves, and _the sea-_

"What the _fuck?!"_ he blurts, voice cracking. "What- what did you just _do-_ I'm not Wes, you know! I don't want anything to do with your kinky shit-"

Wes's girl sucks in a breath and stares at him, hard. Such pretty eyes to know such steel. Such a stark opposite from the bambi-eyed plaything washed ashore. There's a light in her, suddenly, a bite of courage that leaves his tongue feeling numb. Or, um, everything a little numb; there's a dulling aftertaste to her, and he feels almost faint.

He swallows thickly, just to make sure he can. He- it _doesn't make sense,_ whatever she'd done to him. There's no way she could have a taser on her, not while she'd been naked through the entire trip to his room, and- and he may be a total newbie when it comes to kissing, but _it's probably not supposed to make him feel milked._

' _Pen',_ she mouths.

"Uh."

' _Please'._

Sound is good. Presently, Soul would prefer she explain herself, instead of making odd, silent requests, but what can he do, when she calls the shots? It is clear he is not the one in control here, despite his gentlemanly rescue mission, despite housing her and _dressing her,_ for fuck's sake. But, sure, whatever - he'll get her a pen, if that what the streaker princess so requests.

A pad of paper, too. Drops it into her lap and then backs away, stomach curling uneasily. Being touched by strangers - _kissed by strangers!_ \- it's Wes's territory, not his. His legs still feel the aftermath of her sparks, like they're made of tv static, and he melts into his rolling computer chair, squinting suspiciously.

She sucks in a deep breath. She's so slight her bosom doesn't really heave the sexy, tempestuous way he's been lead to believe they do. His shirt drowns her, worn crimson cotton stark against the pale of her skin, and she's tiny, for a moment. Tiny, flipping the notebook open, tiny in the way she tries to write with the plastic casing of her pen, tiny in the way she gasps, just the sound of her breath.

She blinks, then. Looks to him in that lost, curious way. As if she did not just kiss him out of nowhere. As if her kiss had not made him feel cotton-brained, for one brief, terrifying moment.

… Hm.

"Click it," says Soul, leaning back into his chair. He wheels back until he's bumped against the wall. Distance. Safe distance, just in case.

She does so, then jumps. Flinches and startles, big green eyes inquisitive and analytical, and it is then that Soul finally realizes something is very, very off. Because apparently a brain-boggling, electric kiss is excusable, and a naked girl lying dormant and bleary eyed in the water is whatever, but complete unawareness of the world around her - _not knowing how to use a pen_ \- is too much. Like a fish out of water, incapable, confused, disoriented, out of sorts - hurriedly scribbling something down onto the notebook, he notes, with almost distressing interest.

 _I can't speak_ , she writes.

"I gathered."

 _I am not under the influence of anything_.

"You can't walk."

_Legs are tricky bits._

For toddlers, maybe. Toddlers, or anyone else who has not practiced, who has never had to walk before. He looks to her, and she stares back fearlessly, boldly. "... You can't _walk,_ " he repeats, brows raised.

This girl doesn't even pause.

 _I don't know how to walk,_ she scrawls. Her handwriting is messy but purposeful. The 'w' of walk is particularly dark, sharp edges, as if the pressure of her hand was greater in that brief, frustrated moment. Her lips pull tight and she exhales.

His chair creaks. He scoots forward, wheels squeaking as he edges bit by bit, never too much to startle her. As if it would. She makes no sense, she _doesn't know how to walk_ , a pen had bested her, but she doesn't look away from him. Never once does she shy away from his gaze, never once ashamed, never once fearful. She is a nearly naked woman in a strange man's bed, and does not even understand the connotations this world whispers from beneath the sheets.

"... You kissed me," he practically squawks, lips still tingling in that funny, fuzzy way. "I didn't… I'm not Wes, you know. I don't know what you two are into, but I'd like it if you left me out of it, thanks. I'm Soul, not my brother."

_I don't know who Wes is?_

"He- the one throwing the party?" He waves a hand grandly between them. She shakes her head, eyes wide. "You were _naked._ People are not usually naked and alone. That is not a thing most people do. Especially not late at night- it's _dangerous._ "

The pen scratches and scribbles. She rips the page, crumples it into a ball and tosses it away.

_Party? I don't understand. I never saw any party. I woke up and you were there. And now we are here? Wherever this is?_

Soul leans forward, elbows on his knees, head drooping. There are a thousand questions buzzing on his lips, anxiety thrumming in his very bones like a pulse, and she only presses her hands to her lap and gives him that same hard, frustrated stare. Purses her pretty pink lips, looking tousled and mangled by the sea, wet hair dripping dark onto her borrowed shirt, and he is forced to accept this as reality. There are no other answers, not while his brain is still racing to recover from the sparks still tingling on his tongue, not while she rubs his sheets between her damp fingers with absurd curiosity.

Then she picks up the pen, and inks, _Where am I? This is soft._

(Fuck.)

Soul jumps to his feet. Double checks that his door is locked, then paces back. Pulls at his hair and then shoots a frazzled look above; his ceiling fan still wobbles, chains shifting, and the world still exists, still turns. Reality is still reality.

But there's her, and things sort of… crackle around him. The world still spins, but she is not of it. She cannot be.

"Your name," he grits, dropping to kneel before her. Her legs drape over the side of his bed, and she's begun sliding down, slowly, digging her toes into the carpet. Facts, he thinks passionately. He must focus on facts, before he subjects himself to such a bizarre reality. Her skin is still skin. She is cold from the tide, but she breathes, and she blinks and sighs and might not speak but that's alright, not everyone does.

And she writes _Maka_.

Pretty name. Odd name. Suits her, and the way she tilts her head at him, the way she pulls the hem of the shirt between her fingers and rubs at the thread, as if she has never experienced anything quite like mass-produced textile. "Why were you on the beach, Maka?"

He braces for anything. Soul tells himself he will accept anything, at this point, and her handwriting is barely comprehensible, but that stark, dark 'w' is distinct, still, as she scrawls _**SEAWITCH**_ **.**

There's still sand caught in her lashes. It can't lessen the utter steel of her stare. Like gemstones, he thinks, falling back, legs suddenly weak - _gemstones,_ hardened by the harsh push and pull of the waves, and his tongue still feels burnt from her magic as she exhales silently.

Maka balls up the page and tosses it over his shoulder. He has half a mind to sprout a tail and chase after it. At this point, anything is possible.


	3. but that girl had so much love

He's never been one to believe in make-believe.

Fairy tales are just that - stories, _tales,_ things told to children and the gullible to inspire a sense of wonder. He's never liked those sort of things. And maybe that's made him a bit of a pretentious ass in the past - maybe his skepticism hadn't been seen as the realism it was and instead as negativity - but it's who he was. Soul couldn't afford to get his hopes up and believe in happily ever after. If he let himself hope, it would only make the crash down to reality that much more painful. Oop, there goes gravity.

But make-believe's in his bed, now, and he really doesn't know what to make of it.

He could ignore it. Could choose to not believe her and her tale - seawitch, still inked into his notebook, dark and ominous - and dismiss her oddities. Default to blaming drugs, or alcohol. Anything else, reality. Something he could place weight on, something he could grasp onto and staple together with facts and sensibility. It would be easy, too. Would be so easy to plug his ears and pretend like anything out of the norm doesn't exist.

But that stings. Stings more than swallowing back his pride and admitting he'd been wrong, and that maybe magic could exist, actually.

Ignorance isn't cool at all.

She sleeps through the night. He lets her have the bed, because while he's willing, apparently, to give up his bed to a stranger - a magical stranger, _what the fuck_ \- he's not really comfortable with bumping elbows with her. Not while he knows she wears nothing under that shirt he'd leant her. Just because he isn't necessarily attracted to her and what she's got going on underneath doesn't mean he wants to run the chance of accidentally copping a feel. And- he's got a thing about personal space, too. Has a thing about sleeping alone, has a thing about being touched, has a thing about being caught in a compromising position by his big brother.

He has a lot of things.

Daylight burns through his dark curtains. Casts a ray of sunlight directly across her eyes, in that uncanny, disruptive way, and she rouses only moments after, shifting. She doesn't grunt like he does. Doesn't even complain, and for a moment, he's impressed, wondering how someone doomed to the ocean could be so resistant to the harsh light of day.

Then he remembers she physically cannot speak. His expression pinches.

"It hadn't been a dream after all," he says, dejectedly.

Maka blinks at him. God, she's got the longest lashes he's ever seen. Every part of her is delicately shaped, tiny, button nose and soft cheeks. Something about mermaids being so meticulously crafted to be beautiful haunts him. Unnerves him a little, too. Because he can sit here and observe all of her pretty features and still doesn't feel a damn thing.

She smiles sadly. Rubs her hands over her eyes and makes like she's sighing, though he can't hear any warmth of voice. Just the exhale of breath, pure function, zero soul. The musician in him sort of feels like crying. The pressured second-born in him crawls over, shuts the blinds, and revels in the darkness.

A wave of hands. She reaches, sitting on her knees, for the window. "What?"

Maka flaps her hands. Tries to mouth something, but the language still must be new to her. Well, she'd only learned how to form the shapes of words not even eight hours ago. Can't say he'd expected her to have mastered the finer arts of articulation yet. Not while she can't even utilize the new intricacies of the English tongue. Even native speakers have their issues. Soul still can't meet people in the eye when he speaks most of the time.

"Wiiiiiiindow?"

Aggressive nodding. Okay.

"What, you want to look through it?"

She's shaking her head. No.

"... Want it open?"

Yes. Ugh. He groans a little, but relents, despite the early-morning sea breeze chilling his bones. His elbows crack as he raises his arms and props the window a third of the way open. She smiles almost serenely, then, when he turns around, and he thinks she might be further bound to the ocean than he'd originally anticipated. Might be a deeper bond to break, more than trading finns for knees.

It breathes life into her. Her skin's almost brighter, and she kicks her legs over the side of the bed. He's on her before she has the chance to try walking again, preemptively reaching out and grasping her by her shoulders.

It's far too early for falling on her face, but her expression is pure exclamation points. "You don't want to do that yet."

She pouts, like a petulant toddler denied shoving a fork into the outlet.

"No, really. Trust me. I saw you trying to walk last night. Knees are tricky bits, remember?"

Maka glares at him, then. She's gotta remember, because he literally cannot forget the real, adult fear he'd felt as she'd zombie-crawled through the sand at him like some sort of super soldier. Her arms are strong - and he supposes it makes sense, as she must've spent so long swimming, but it's still terrifying, in its own way. Terrifying, that someone so beautiful and destined to seduce and drown sailors is so fucking jacked.

He lets go of her shoulders, then. There are taut, trained muscles there, too, and he is entirely spoiled rich boy meets scene kid. Mermaka might not be able to walk, but should he push the wrong buttons, she could certainly snap him in half.

' _Teach me,'_ she lips.

As if it is that simple. Soul chokes back a laugh and runs a hand through his hair. "Do I look like a parent to you?"

' _What?'_

"Learning to walk isn't that easy, you know," he says, sensibly. Someone has to be sensible. Someone here who hadn't made a deal with a seawitch. "It'll take time."

She leans, then, grappling for the notebook. Ah. Yes, that will make conversation easier, won't it? Language is always easier written than spoken, isn't it? Her wordless tongue won't have the chance to stumble over grammar. Lips won't have to try and over-enunciate, so that he, stunted virtuoso, will be able to understand her.

Maka tears a page away after a moment of scribbling. Starts again.

_I have to learn if I want to get anywhere. Please?_

"It will take time," Soul mumbles.

_I have a year._

He sighs and scrubs the back of his head. Bed hair, great. His only consolation is he surely looks better than she does - post-swim hair is literally never a good look. If her eyes were less lovely, she might resemble a wet, mangled cat.

A whole year, he thinks. "You're stupid brave, you know," he says, cracking his neck, grunting when his spine finally pops into place, too. "If my brother had found you on that beach, you wouldn't-"

There's a steely look in her eyes. For a moment, he thinks he sees the hunter in her, even though her teeth are blunt now and her claws trimmed to dainty nails. There's that hardness in her stare, the determined lines in her face. Humanness might mute her predatory features, but there doesn't seem like a force in the world that could tame that spirit.

 _Stupid brave,_ he thinks, resolutely.

Her hand is quick and angry. _I had to. It's important to me._

It's no time for an interrogation, not while his brother and his friends are finally rousing to life, frying pans clanking down the hall, but, "What is?" he whispers anyway, perhaps foolishly. Curiosity killed the cat. Skewered him with her claws and sunk her teeth into his neck.

She chews her lip. Seems momentarily thrown off, and touches her fingers to her mouth, runs her tongue over her teeth before dejectedly realizing that her tail was not the only thing she'd traded. Seems as though she hadn't accounted for this, being a full-blooded human girl, fleshy and soft, with straight, dull teeth. It distracts her, for a moment, from her righteous hell-fire of determination, and Soul yawns in the allowed time and stretches again, as if it will actually cure him of his aches and pains.

His back cracks, noisily. Her lips press together. She winces. She scribbles, _is that normal?_

"Haaah. For me?" Yes. Absolutely. He is an old man in a twenty-two year old's body. "... I guess."

_Doesn't it hurt?_

Lots of things hurt. This, though, is not so bad. Growing pains. Morning soreness. He'd slept on the floor, after all. "Eh."

_Your posture is the worst I've ever seen._

"Hey, can it. What do you know? You can't even walk, fish breath."

She pinks violently. Aggressively pens her response and then holds it up in front of her, like one of those cheesy Youtube-2010-teen-angst videos. _**I've seen men before!**_

The revelation is sort of chilling. Well, of course she has; despite the humor of it all, a newly legged ocean-dweller incapable of walking to the bathroom on her own, it does not change the truth: she's probably killed men before. Probably dragged perfect-postured men to the ocean floor. That's what all the stories say, don't they? Fairy-tales and myths. Mermaids sing their song and seduce their prey into the water. Beautiful and deadly. Forbidden fruit.

Maybe she would've tried to kill him, in another life.

It's a good thing he doesn't really understand seduction. Hm. He's much too calm, with a predator tied up in his sheets, come to think of it. Probably has something to do with the doe-eyed way she keeps looking up to his ceiling fan, transfixed.

Still. Soul grumbles and scratches his cheek idly. From outside his door, footsteps shuffle down the hall. "Whatever. You still smell like a seafood restaurant."

Pink is cute on her, objectively. She doesn't have the time to scold him in ballpoint-pen blue ink before her stomach reminds her of the hour of day and she jumps a mile. The notebook topples off of her lap and she draws a direct line from inner thigh to knee.

He cracks a grin. "Breakfast time?"

Maka looks helpless, for a moment. Tries scrubbing the ink from her skin, but finds it's going no where fast, and looks to him, expectantly.

"What?" he asks, cheekily.

She can't sass him if she doesn't have her notebook. Still, though, he sort of misses her banter. She's a bit alien, in the way she speaks and doesn't understand the simplest of human invention, but she's still witty, in her own way.

Soul shakes his head decidedly. It's been too long since he's had friends.

"I'll try and sneak you some food," he whispers, then finally groans his way to his feet. Ugh. Still too early to be conscious. "Sit here and be quiet. If Wes finds out you're here, I'll never hear the end of it, Christ."

He's halfway out the door when he realizes again that she cannot speak back. Glances over his shoulder to find her giving him such a dry, deadpan _glare_ that he can't help but chuckle, just a little.

And alright, that's fair. What's she going to do, up and walk away? Scream? She is just as much at his mercy as he is hers. Partners in absurdity.


End file.
